Why care that there’s a forest here
Where the cemetery used to be?
Fir trees, birch trees, pine trees, lovely markers.
And the local farmer’s daughter
Who walks often in these woods
Can show you where the markers used to be;
She’ll point out remnants of the layers of cement,
Which (according to my father-in-law)
Were made to look like bedclothes on the graves:
A few small clumps beneath the spreading trees,
Spreading out their roots among the bones,
Who might even enjoy the lively company.
And as for the markers, the stolen markers,
My guess is the bones don’t miss them.
They know—don’t they?—who they are.